


that which we call a rose

by orphan_account



Series: legend!verse [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 11:29:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2427074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apparently, saving the bees is only the first thing on Cas's never-ending to do list of ways to save the planet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that which we call a rose

**Author's Note:**

> first off, i apologize (again) for the long wait. i suck. sorry.  
> second, i've started working on longfic versions of both this verse and [ghosts and old roads](http://archiveofourown.org/series/133524). so, while this is the last piece in this particular series, it's not the end of the verse!  
> and, hey, thank you all so much. for reading, and giving kudos, and commenting, and just being so incredibly kind and wonderful. it means so, so much to me. i love you guys. <3

Apparently, saving the bees is only the first thing on Cas's never-ending to do list of ways to save the planet.

He wants to save the dolphins, the whales, the polar bears, the eagles, the tigers, the leopards, the penguins, and the butterflies. He has t-shirts for three of these causes, and posters for the other five. One day he says that he'd like to save the cows.

"You know," says Dean, straight-faced, "I kind of think cows are just, y'know. Doing their own thing. Not so sure they're endangered. Or, like. In any immediate peril."

Cas squints at him. "That's good," he decides, finally. Then, "You are a good person, Dean Winchester."

And, like, it's late, okay, it's been a long day, they've gotten another Secondary, something big is boiling upstairs and Cas isn't really talking about it. So. Dean's not in the mood to play this game. "Cas." It's not a plea or a warning or anything, really. It is a small word, but heavy, and it drops to the floor. Neither of them bother to pick it up.

There's silence, and then Cas says, slowly, "Magic is neutral." And Dean thinks immediately about Anael, and how she's probably sitting in Ruby's apartment and asking questions like Cas always asks questions. Gods are curious little bastards, considering that they're supposed to be, like, all-knowing and all-encompassing and stuff.

It's just, Dean saw Ruby at work the other day, and he saw the way she looked at Anael– Anna, Ruby calls her Anna– and he'd wanted to say something. He didn't, but he could've. He could've said,  _I know._ He could've said,  _you never get used to it._

"I'm sure you know that," Cas adds. He's very patient, waits for Dean's brain to catch up with the world. That's thoughtful of him.

"I'm aware, yep," Dean says. His voice is dry and he thinks about getting up to get a glass of water, and then everything just kind of slams into him at once. He doesn't know why that does it, it's a hypothetical glass of fucking water, he isn't going to– this is, this is just. He leans forward, squeezes his eyes shut, ducks his head down towards his knees. He remembers Sam telling him– years and years ago, when Dean was still taller– that you were supposed to do that, for motion sickness. Put your head between your knees. Dean remembers thinking,  _that's fucking stupid, there should be a spell for this shit._

Except, here's the thing, there aren't any spells for motion sickness. There aren't any spells for fixing the hole in the ozone layer. There aren't any spells to prolong your lifespan. There aren't any spells to get out of waiting in line.

And, like, sure, okay, maybe you could look at that, and you could be like seventeen-year-old Dean Winchester, and you could say,  _that's fucking stupid, there should be a spell for this shit._

But Dean Winchester is not seventeen anymore, and sometimes– not always, no, but at least sometimes– he can appreciate that the cure for motion sickness is staring at the horizon, or putting your head between your knees (and the real question is, does that even work), or maybe visiting your local pharmacy and waiting in line for a little bit. Because there aren't any spells for that, either. For waiting.

"And you have magic," Cas continues. The stupid thing is happening again where the lights are brightening, and the TV is spazzing, which means Castiel is probably also smiling or maybe just doing that thing where his mouth stays pulled down but his eyes crease and his ears go a little bit pink, and it's, wow. It's like a sunrise. Shitty metaphor, but Dean loves that feeling, because you know it's going on every morning, even if it's before you wake up, and then one day you take the time to  _look_ and the sky's on fire and it's beautiful. Not bad fire, destructive fire. Dean used to think that was the only kind of fire there was. It's not, he's learning. It's not. There's the fire in his fireplace, that's good fire, that's like Christmas. There's candles, still good, and there's the sun, which maybe is good from a distance except it hurts to look at, mostly.

Which makes him think,  _Cas_. Dean wonders how it felt to wake up from a dream for the very first time.

The thought makes him lose his breath in another way, not a pressing way, or a choking way, just, like, the feeling after you get sucker-punched or you fall on your back. Getting the wind knocked out of you, except not quite that. The feeling just after it. Of breathing hard, checking, here are my vitals, do my lungs still work, is my trachea still doing its thing? Yes. That's, you know. That's all you need, right?

Dean sits upward, slowly, unclenching his fists. He's a work in progress, maybe. A fixer-upper. Cas is okay with that, or else Cas wouldn't still be here. It's not a happy thought, per se, but it's a determined one. It's something to hold on to. "Yeah," he says, cautiously. "I do."

"You have magic, and it is bright." Dean chances a look up at Cas's face, and Cas is doing that thing, he totally is. His ears are bright pink and so are his cheeks. "The brightest I have ever seen, I think. It's extraordinary. You. You are extraordinary."

"Stop," Dean says, and he shifts over like he's going to kiss Cas but he fumbles and can't. He just sits there, with his forehead pressed against Castiel's, eyes closed, feeling like an idiot. "'M sorry," he whispers, but stays still, keeps his eyes shut tight. Maybe the drowning feeling will go away. Maybe if he puts his head between his knees. Maybe if he stares at the horizon. At the sunrise. "I'm real sorry, Cas."

"Why are you sorry?" Cas whispers back. "And why are we lowering our voices? I'm afraid I don't understand this ritual."

Dean opens his eyes and starts laughing so hard that he jerks forward and accidentally smacks his forehead against Cas's, which hurts like a motherfuckerbut just serves to make him laugh harder.

"I still don't understand," Cas whispers, mystified, and, shit, he's still  _whispering._ Un-fucking-real. "Was that the wrong thing to say?"

"Nah," Dean tells him, and sobers up a little. "You pretty much nailed it, actually."

—

"I," Ruby declares, lifting her finger weakly towards the ceiling, "fucking  _hate_ Secondaries." She sits down at the break table and miserably examines her fingernails, muttering something that sounds kind of like "ninety-three percent, my ass" under her breath. _  
_

"Aw," Victor says, with mock sympathy. He pats her shoulder. "What's wrong? Marital disputes? Trouble in paradise?"

"I will kill you," Ruby says, not bothering to look up. "And I will not feel very bad about it."

"Marital disputes it is, then," Victor says. Ruby starts like she's going to get out of her chair, and Victor shrieks and sprints for the front desk.

Dean gives her a look.

"What?" she asks, innocently, with the kind of expression Cas gets when he breaks things, like, who, me, that's preposterous Dean of course I would never break your toaster oven.

Dean shrugs. "I don't know," he says, deadpan. "Was he right?"

"Wow." Ruby gives him an appraising look. "You're lucky you're the sole source of my income, or else I would deck you."

"That bad, huh?"

Ruby opens her mouth– ready, no doubt, to make the kind of darkly acerbic retort she always does. Except then she shuts it. And nods. "It's, it's actually– she just won't fucking talk to me. Ever." Dean freezes, because, oh shit, Ruby's gonna talk to him about feelings, probably. Is he equipped for this conversation? Is he, like, qualified? The last time he talked to a girl about feelings– he actually doesn't remember, it must've been Charlie, and if it wasn't, then it probably ended badly enough that his brain has erased the memory. "Like, I don't know, something's up. You know how Henriksen dropped that Tertiary off at the hospital the other day? And then there was that Secondary, the one who crashed at Jo's and then went to the shelter? Another one.  _Another_  Secondary. Three in less than a year."

Dean glances at the doorway, feeling a little sick. "Shit," he says. "Did Anael– Anna, uh, she didn't– any reason to think there's something going on upstairs?"

"I don't know." Ruby looks grim. "Why? Did Castiel say something?"

"No. No, he didn't."

"Great. Godly radio silence. Could be the fucking apocalypse, and the both of them would just look at the stars together from my balcony and say,  _incredible, they look so strange from this perspective,_ and then they'd make all the lights in my apartment explode." _  
_

Dean realizes, with a terrifying kind of certainty, that _Cas totally would._

"Shit," he says. "Fuck, should we, do we get involved?"

Ruby stands up and rolls her shoulders. Contemplates. "No," she says, finally, "no, I don't think so. Getting involved in celestial warfare is not my game. Sorry. She's gonna give me radio silence, that's what she's gonna get." Ruby stalks off, and Dean's thinking, wow, mutual silent treatment _._ Definitely trouble in paradise.

Except also literally. If the celestial warfare part is, you know. Actually happening. "Son of a bitch," Dean says, to the empty room.

—

"So what's going on upstairs, Cas?"

Cas looks at Dean with this slightly pinched expression. "Upstairs?"

"Yeah, upstairs. What's going on? What aren't you guys telling us?"

Cas ducks his head, a little. "Well," he says, voice small, "I may– Anael and I, we may have sparked a minor revolution."

"A minor– I'm sorry, a  _minor revolution?_ " 

"Don't worry," Cas says, quickly. "None of them have killed each other, so far."

Dean opens his mouth, closes it. "Don't worry?" he repeats, distantly, and then it clicks, and, "Wait, what the hell do you mean,  _so far?_ "

"Upstairs," Cas tells him, "is a very different place than downstairs. Many of your stories and legends tell of wars among the gods that eradicate the human plane of existence, but–" he shrugs. "It's very unlikely that such a thing would actually happen. At this war's most destructive, our plane would cease to exist. Your plane would probably continue on." Dean stares, and Cas must sense his unease, because he frowns. "But this isn't a war. Only a minor rebellion against the Primordial order."

"Okay, but,  _minor_ ," Dean says. "See, I'm still stuck on that part, I just don't really get how celestial warfare–"

"Dean, please," Cas interrupts, and actually rolls his fucking eyes, Dean cannot believe this, who fucking taught him that, Dean is going to slaughter them, "you could hardly call this  _warfare._ " Cas bounces on the balls of his feet. "I need to feed the fish now," he announces, and turns and heads for the kitchen.

—

It turns out that the minor revolution is not really all that minor. It's kind of the apocalypse, actually, and for awhile the media goes nuts and the president talks about how the country needs to take proactive steps to forestall this crisis, but nothing really gets done. C'est la vie. The apocalypse, miraculously, is averted anyway. A Tertiary named Ezekiel is the first to deliver the news. The upstairs is all fixed up.

Castiel stays downstairs. Waters his plants everyday, rescues deer, teaches the nine-year-old girl on the subway wearing a Save the Bees t-shirt which plants are good to put in your garden.

Dean exchanges a look with the mother, like,  _trust me, I know,_ and he feels like she gets the message because she grins, a little. Her vibe is kind of clairvoyant. Second-rate psychic, maybe. _  
_

"Come on, Claire," she says, when the doors open. "We gotta go. Yes, we will buy lavender on our way home– no we are _not_ going to the store with the hex bags, I don't need a repeat of last time, took me forever to scrub the curses out of the sink–"

Dean sees Cas smile faintly after them.

He thinks about it.

—

"Hey," Dean says one night, and mutes the TV. Cas pouts, because he is actually really weirdly invested in  _Hawaii Five-0._ It's not Dean's fault, he swears. "Do you ever think about going back up?"

Cas's brow creases. "The hypothetical possibility has crossed my mind, yes," he answers, evenly.

"Right, right." Dean laughs, except it's not funny, and he's not even sure why he started this conversation. "But, you know, the humanity thing– you don't think it's kind of a drag? You actually like it down here?"

Dean knows that Cas is perfectly capable of zapping himself right back upstairs, to hang out with Ezekiel, and Uriel, and all his other siblings, and that if he wanted to, he would've gone a long time ago. So he doesn't know why he asks. Maybe because he's picking a fight. Maybe because when he has a good thing he always feels the need to fuck it right up. Maybe because he still can't really believe it, after all these months. Eleven of them.

Any of those things, all of those things, he doesn't really know. Sometimes he still has to fight for air, sometimes lightbulbs spark out above him and Cas isn't even nearby and he doesn't want to think about what that means, that maybe he's feeling so much that it's  _his_  energy making things explode.

It's the reason why, when he catches Cas watching documentaries at 3am and wasting his cable bill, he has to sit down. Because sometimes it's just too much. The whole thing is too fucking much. He remembers August in flashes; sometimes he thinks about it, sometimes he thinks,  _I should've explained dreaming differently._

"Of course I like it down here," Cas says. "That's why I stayed. For humanity. For you."

Dean swallows. "You, as in, plural, as in,  _you, humanity as a whole,_ like, y'all, that kind of you?"

Cas shakes his head, smiles. It's a sad one. "I should have said." He exhales. "When I had the dream, I don't know if you remember. I said it hurt to look at you. Like the sun."

"I remember," Dean blurts. "I definitely remember." _  
_

"What I should have said was that I looked at you, and you were bright, and it was blinding, and all I wanted was to look harder."

"Oh," Dean says, and his voice is shaky. "Cas, I, uh." He coughs, tries to steer this train away from collision. Clears his throat. "You know, humans get taught real young not to look at then sun, or it'll hurt their eyes."

"Yes." Cas straightens. " _Well._ I am not a human."

"I noticed," Dean says, and he turns the volume back up but buries his face in Cas's t-shirt, anyway, because when people really love you they let you do that kind of thing. He grins into the fabric, despite himself.

—

"Hey," Jo says, while they're in the back getting coffee. "Isn't it the big day next week?"

Dean stares at her. "What? What big day?"

"Um, I don't know, what's the word, oh, yeah,  _your anniversary?_ "

"My anniver–  _Jo._  No."

She gets this gleam in her eye. Dean hates that fucking gleam. It means bad things for him, like week-long migraines and embarrassing photos and blackmail material. "Oh. Oh, boy. This is happening. Is Pamela in today? She clocks in at noon, right, or is it–"

"I swear to God, you call Pam and they will never find your body."

"Hey, Victor!" Jo yells, which is so not better. "Henriksen! Get your ass in here!"

Victor pokes his head in from the back office door. "I actually have things to do, you know."

"No, asshole, you don't understand. It's the big day next week."

"Oho. Awesome." Victor grins. "So, what's the plan, Dean? Extended weekend on the coast? Wine tasting in Napa? Perhaps a romantic getaway to the exotic–"

"I am going to kill you," Dean says. "Both of you. I'll hire out Ruby, I will fucking–"

"Party!" Jo says. "Party, Victor, office party! For the happy couple!"

"Oh!" Victor points at her. "I am so on board with that. Friday? Yeah, Friday. When's Charlie in, do you know? 'Cause we need her for this, I think we–"

Which is when Cas walks in, wearing that stupid fucking yellow t-shirt that says  _Bee Kind!_ with a cartoon of two bees smiling at each other, which Dean bought as a joke. For fuck's sake. Why. "What do we need Charlie for?" Cas asks.

"The Dean and Castiel anniversary, of course," Jo says. "There's going to be a party. On Friday."

Cas frowns. "But Dean doesn't like parties."

"He doesn't, huh? Well I have some pictures that could probably–"

"Okay!" Dean says, very loudly. "Okay! Cas and I are getting lunch, right, babe? Right. Let's go. Goodbye." Dean grabs Cas's wrist and hauls him bodily out through the back door to the employee parking lot.

"We're skipping work on Friday," Dean says, fervently, when they're both in the car.

Cas looks at him, deadpan. "Are we going to Napa?"

"Oh my  _fucking_ God," Dean says, too loudly, and kisses Cas right there in the front seat, because he can, because he is not going to work on Friday, because that's something to celebrate. Because for all that he loves Cas, he has trouble saying it, sometimes. Still. He only feels like a little bit of an idiot when he mumbles, "And, hey, happy anniversary" against Cas's jaw.


End file.
